


Pepperoni Proposal

by sebacielfantasies



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Fake Proposal, M/M, Pizza, Post-Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:58:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7787608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebacielfantasies/pseuds/sebacielfantasies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misaki drags Saruhiko to the local pizza place. When neither remember to bring their wallets and have no money to pay for their meal, drastic measures are taken.</p><p>(Or, Misaki and Saruhiko pretend to get married so they can get a free meal.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pepperoni Proposal

“Yo, Saru.” Elbows leaning forward on the small, circular table, Misaki huffs out a laugh. “You got some pizza sauce on your shirt.”

Saruhiko looks down, and Misaki is right: a splotch of sauce is splattered across his front like blood, dark red and staining. He almost wishes it  _ was  _ blood. The blood of his carefree companion, perhaps.

“You don't say,” he grumbles, and reaches for a napkin or two to dab at the stain. His tone is dark with disdain. “I hadn't noticed.”

“Aw, c’mon, would you quit being so moody already?” Misaki scowls around the pizza slice stuffed into his mouth. “It's pissing me off.”

“. . . Pissing  _ you  _ off?”

In this moment, the blue clansman is sorely, sorely tempted to reach across the conveniently small table, wrap his fingers around Misaki's throat and  _ squeeze _ —but he can't, one because they're (or so Misaki claims) friends now and two because they're in public, which generally frowns upon that kind of behavior.

So, with much effort, he remains seated. He sighs, resumes cleaning his shirt of the pasty red substance, and wonders when he’s going to catch a break from the bundle of energy that is Yata Misaki, if ever.

When Misaki first suggested pizza for breakfast, Saruhiko didn’t really know what to expect. He didn’t expect to be dragged out of bed in only his sweats at ten o’clock in the morning, for one thing, nor did he expect to be manhandled into the driver’s seat of their shared car, half-awake and glasses askew. He didn’t expect Misaki to tell him then to floor it to the local pizza place, because Misaki was in the mood for pizza and who cared if it was ten o’clock in the goddamn morning.

(Saruhiko cared, of course, but one look at Misaki’s bright eyes and toothy grin and he’d no choice but to relent. After all, they may be friends again but they haven’t been friends long and Saruhiko isn’t quite sure how to handle these expressions, these expressions not darkened with hate but aglow with light.)

Now, though, as he sits in one of Shizume City’s most popular pizza places and smears the pizza sauce off his night shirt, he wishes he’d been able to resist that expression. If he had, he could’ve been catching up on his sleep right now, as he’s supposed to on his day off.

“Saru,” complains Misaki, tearing him away from his thoughts, “hey, you’ve got a scary look on your face . . . y’know, that one you usually get when your co-workers fuck up or something?”

Saruhiko clicks his tongue.

“I mean, is this really so bad? You don’t have anything against pizza, do you? We ate it all the time when we were kids, after all. And this one doesn’t even have any vegetables on it—”

“You tried to order vegetables, though.” Saruhiko looks down at his cheese and pepperoni pizza with something akin to a betrayed expression, ironically.

“Yeah, and you covered my mouth before I could, then finished the order yourself, asshole! Either way, there’s no fucking vegetables, just the way you like it, so are you just never satisfied or what?”

Saruhiko takes a sip from his soda, sucking lightly on the plastic straw. “I was sleeping,” he says slowly, blue eyes rising to find hazel, “and you kidnapped me. Now you expect me to be satisfied? You’re an idiot.”

“Kidnapped you?” The pizza slice falls slack in Misaki’s mouth, sauce dotting the corner of his lips. His eyes flash. “Are you fucking serious? You think I  _ kidnapped you?” _

“I don’t think you did, I know you did. You took me by force, without my consent. That’s kidnap.”

“I—I know what kidnap is, idiot! But if I don’t do that, you’ll never go anywhere with me! You’d probably never leave the house if it wasn’t for work with those stupid Blues!” Pizza forgotten on his plate, Misaki throws his hands up in a frustrated gesture. “You know what, fine. You wanna go so bad, we’ll leave. Happy?”

Saruhiko blinks, unsure as to what happened, before the words sink in and drip into his stomach like acid. There’s a hurt look in Misaki’s eyes, which were bubbly with happiness what feels like only minutes before, and his smile has warped into a scowl.

As Misaki reads over the receipt on the table, fumbling through his pockets for the amount of money written, Saruhiko looks away, his appetite gone. He traces a finger over the water ring his soda left on the table and wonders how many times he can push Misaki away before Misaki stops bouncing back.

(He’d stopped bouncing back in HOMRA—whenever Saruhiko had pushed him away he’d stayed away, flocking to Mikoto’s side, and Saruhiko wishes Misaki would somehow understand that he doesn’t really want him gone, ever.)

He’s aware that old habits die hard. He’s aware that he’ll keep pushing and pushing and  _ pushing _ , because that’s what instinctive to him, the need to protect himself from others who can (will) hurt him.

However, he also knows that with their friendship so raw, with them understanding each other so little, he can’t push Misaki away, or else this second chance they stumbled upon will be ruined and no one ever hears of third chances.

“Um, Saru?”

Slowly, he looks up. There are half-formed words on Saruhiko’s lips, something like  _ maybe we can stay here awhile longer, if you want  _ or  _ you haven’t even finished your pizza sit your ass down and eat  _ or  _ i’m sorry  _ but the panic on Misaki’s face makes him pause.

“What?”

“Did you bring your wallet with you?”

Saruhiko gives him an annoyed look. “My wallet? I didn’t even have the chance to fix my hair before we left, do you honestly think I’d have my wallet?” His sweat pants don’t even have any pockets.

“I, uh.” Misaki splutters. “I think we have a teeny tiny problem, then . . . ha . . .”

Saruhiko’s eyes narrow. “You forget your wallet too, didn’t you.”

Caught under the other’s forbidding gaze, Misaki wriggles down in his seat, red faced with shame, before jerking his head into a nod. “I was, well, kinda caught up in the whole Getting Pizza With Saru Thing and I guess I just forgot . . . and you usually pay, anyway, so—”

“Misaki,” he sighs, “in the state I was in when you woke me up, it wouldn’t have surprised me if I’d have forgotten even my glasses. Of course I didn’t bring any money.”

“Well, shit. How the fuck are we gonna pay for this? I have,” after turning his pockets inside out, Misaki clinks out a few coins, not nearly enough to cover their breakfast expenses, onto the table, “this much.”

Saruhiko watches a stray coin roll into the basket of fries they’d ordered and withholds a groan.

“You wouldn’t have any spare change, right? Since you’re in your pajamas?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Absentmindedly, Misaki picks up his pizza from before and bites into it. He looks to be deep in thought, an odd occurrence for him. “We just need some kind of a way to get the rest of the money we need; that should be easy enough. We can do that, right? Right?”

Misaki is grasping at straws and they both know it. Other than a noncommittal shrug, Saruhiko offers no response; he leaves Misaki to his own devices and looks away, out the very large and very spacious window. He briefly watches the pizza place’s OPEN sign, flickering neon greens and yellows and blues, before his eyes snag on a man outside the eatery, strumming a tune on the guitar strewn over his lap. The man has gained an audience, Saruhiko notices, and he watches as a woman rifles through her purse for some coins to put in his guitar case on the ground.

“Oh, that’s it, Saruhiko!” Misaki has followed his gaze out the window. There’s a familiar kind of excitement in his voice as he declares, “Let’s do what that guy’s doin’!”

“What, play a guitar? Are you stupid?”

“No,” says Misaki, scowling, “I meant, let’s get money that way! One of us can stay here and hold down the fort while the other raises the money we need doin’ something interesting for that crowd.” His scowl deepens. “Shit, but I don’t have my skateboard, so it’s not like I can do any cool tricks right now . . . It’ll have to be you, Saru.”

Saruhiko blinks. “Eh? Not happening.”

“Wha—Why not? You could use your knives—”

“Why would I have my knifes with me?”

“I know you, Saru, and I  _ know  _ you have at least four hidden somewhere underneath that shirt. But you could use them somehow, maybe you could throw one perfectly through some guy’s hat or something; I bet people would pay to see that—”

“No.”

“Or you could juggle, I’ve seen you do that before—”

“No.”

“Or, or, you could speak English for them! That’s always really cool, I bet we could get a bunch of money with that—”

“Normal people aren’t as easily amused as you, idiot. That’s stupid.” As an afterthought, he adds, “And no.”

With that, the limited patience in Misaki snaps. Teeth set in a snarl, his palms thud against the table, hard enough to send a few fries airborne. Saruhiko’s coke trembles and he lifts it off the table. “What the hell is your problem? I’m just trying to—!”

“Excuse me. Sir?”

There’s an employee beside their table, arms folded. Her tone is polite, courteous for customers, but the way she eyes them, as if they’re teenagers fooling around, is anything but friendly. “Is there a problem here? You’re scaring the customers, so if there is a problem, I’d be happy to escort you gentleman out." Her eyes fall to the receipt, “That is, after you’ve paid for your meal, of course.”

“Uh—” Cherry red, Misaki lifts his arms from the table in a hurry and plops back into his seat, reduced to a stuttering mess in an instant. “N-No, t-there’s no problem at all, miss, u-u-um—”

“I’m glad there’s no problem,” she smiles. Misaki only blushes harder. “Please, do continue to enjoy your meal.”

When the employee is out of sight, Saruhiko can’t help a small chuckle.

“I’m surprised she could even understand you with that stutter, Mi-sa-ki.”

“S-Shaddup!”

“And seeing you  _ propose _ to a woman one day, that should be even more interesting to see, hm?”

The statement, while meant to be teasing and a source of amusement for Saruhiko, unexpectedly pulls his lips into a frown. On second thought, he isn’t sure it would be interesting to see after all, watching a lovesick Misaki stutter through a proposal to a woman of his choosing. No, it wouldn’t be interesting at all, in fact.

He feels something ugly twist around his heart, and his chest feels tighter and his breath feels shorter but he isn’t sure why.

Before he can dwell on it, though, there’s a victorious whoop from the person across from him, and Saruhiko hears Misaki’s smile before he sees it.

“That’s it, Saruhiko, you’re a genius!” With his chest puffed out and grin stretching from ear-to-ear, Misaki says, “We just gotta get engaged!”

Saruhiko blinks.

“We just need to . . .” His lips feel dry, all of sudden, dry as sandpaper. He runs his tongue, his teeth, over the skin and feels the sudden urge to bite down until he tastes red. “What?”

He wonders if perhaps he heard him wrong, because he could’ve sworn Misaki said they should marry but that’s simply ridiculous (it is, right?) and whatever was suffocating Saruhiko’s heart is gone now so it can freely beat, so it can freely beat very, very fast.

“Yeah!” says Misaki. “Y’know how, when a person proposes to their girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever at a restaurant, the staff there sometimes give them a free meal as congratulations? Well, we can just pretend to get married and maybe they’ll make our meal free!”

“. . . Oh.” Saruhiko feels the breath caught in his throat leave him in one dizzying whoosh. He clicks his tongue, chastises himself for jumping to conclusions, and ridiculous conclusions at that. “Say it louder, you dolt, I don’t think everyone on this block heard you yet.”

“Ah, right, sorry. My bad.”

Saruhiko looks away. “It’s actually not a completely stupid idea, though,” he admits, albeit under his breath.

“Told ya I’d come up with something,” Misaki grins. “Now. The real question is, who’s proposin’?”

Idly, he picks up a fry from the basket, spins it around his fingers like one of his knives. “I’ll do it,” he finally says, after much contemplation. “It’s easier that way.” He knows that somehow, Misaki would mess it up; he’s seen Misaki’s acting before and it was anything but pleasant.

Misaki frowns. “What, do you think you’re more of a man than I am or something? No, I’ll do it.”

“Misaki,” he drawls, lips twitching up at the corners, “even your name sounds feminine. Plus, I’m the better actor and you know it. It’ll look more realistic if I do the proposing, so just let me do it and get this over with. I want to go home already.”

“You shitty monkey, I swear I’ll—”

“Oh, look,” says Saruhiko. He flicks his eyes over to the cashier, and the various other orange aproned employees gathered behind the counter. “The employees are looking at us, Misaki. Maybe they’ll try to kick us out for real this time . . . ?”

Misaki stiffens. Then, with much effort, he smooths out his scowl into and settles back in his seat.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Fine, you win. Do what you want.”

Satisfied, Saruhiko smothers the smile that almost, almost creeps onto his face, and looks around him. Even so early in the morning, the eatery is still fairly crowded, with most of the tables occupied. As long as he speaks loudly enough, they should be able to draw enough attention to themselves for the staff to take notice. There was one problem, though.

“Where’s my ring?”

Misaki grumbles this into his lap, toying with a stray thread on his shorts. He tugs twice at the green string, and says again: “You know, that thing you gotta propose to me with? What are you gonna do about that?”

He doesn’t know.

“Here, use this.” What appears to be a strip of crumpled white paper is forced into his hands. “It’s the straw wrapper from my soda. Just tie it around my finger or something, make up some story on the fly about why you don’t have my ring yet.”

He stares down at the straw sleeve shoved between his fingers, a horrible makeshift ring but the only option they have, and nods.

“One more thing.” Before Saruhiko can so much as blink, his privacy bubble is burst open and there are hands fumbling through his hair, combing out the unruly strands. “Were you seriously planning on proposing to me with this shitty bedhead?”

The rough, calloused hands that sink into his scalp are almost too gentle, more gentle than he deserves. Saruhiko stiffens, cement in his veins and rocks in his throat, and he is perfectly still. He wants to tell Misaki to back off, wants to rip his hands away from his head because that’s what he does, hurt people before they will hurt him, pushes them away before he’s pushed to the side himself—but he forces himself to relax, shakes the tension off his shoulders and reminds himself that people never hear of third chances so he better not destroy this second one.

“There, now you look presentable. Kind of.”

When Misaki steps away, they both seem to realize just how close they had been standing to each other, about nose-to-nose, and a blush catches fire on his cheeks. Saruhiko ears feel warm, as well, much to his annoyance.

"Um.” Misaki all but throws himself back into his chair, hands balled on his lap. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

With one last glance around the eatery, Saruhiko clicks his tongue, anxious to be done with this and back in bed, as he should be during this time of the day. Clearing his throat, he looks anywhere but at Misaki.

“Misaki,” he says, as he slides down on one knee, “marry me.”

Unfortunately, what he thought would be loud comes out quieter than the squeak of a mouse, for some reason, and Saruhiko raises his eyes to see the person he is supposed to be asking to fake marry him fuming where he sits.

“Saruhiko, what the hell!” he whispers, but even his whisper booms loud and how unfair is this, that he can sound so loud without it even being intentional. “ _ I’m  _ the terrible actor? I could barely hear that and I’m right next to you! You gotta be louder! And,” he adds, sporting his third blush of the morning, “You need to sound more, um . . . l-loving. You sound like a robot.”

He opens his mouth to cut in, but Misaki isn’t done.

“And,” he says. “You need more than that, idiot monkey! Do you honestly think I’d want to marry you after such a lame ass speech? Geez, it’s like you don’t even know how this whole proposal thing works! You’ve gotta talk about why you like me and all that too, not just ask to marry me and be done with it. You’ve gotta put your heart into it, man! If you even have one, that is.”

Saruhiko stares. It takes effort to school his expression back into its normal stoic one, as startled as he is. He can’t tell if Misaki’s face is red out of embarrassment or anger or a mix of both.

“One last thing,” he jerks Saruhiko closer by the scruff of his neck, and Saruhiko is too surprised to protest, “you’re kneeling so far away someone might think you’re proposing to that empty table over there, stupid. We’re not enemies anymore, so you don’t have to be scared of me or anything like that.”

His last, boastful comment is so like him, and so unlike the rest of this gibberish he’s spouting that Saruhiko almost feels relieved. He snorts, “You’re such an idiot.”

By now, they’ve attracted quite a few stares from nearby tables, mostly because he still has one knee on the floor. They almost seem to be waiting, and Misaki leans back in his seat. Saruhiko takes a breath.

“Mi . . . ” he starts again, but this time he stops mid-name and he swallows, because this process is harder than he thought it would be and the words seem to clog in his lungs like smoke. As much as he hates to admit it, perhaps Misaki would’ve been better for this after all.

He expects Misaki to laugh at him for his sudden hesitance, say something like “What, chickening out already, Saruhiko?” but he doesn’t. Instead, he offers Saruhiko an encouraging smile and gives him a thumbs-up, a silent  _ you can do this. _

Well, Saruhiko really has no choice now, does he.

“Misaki,” he says, this time louder, loud enough for heads to turn in their direction. He manages to keep his eyes on the other’s smile without meeting his eyes. “Misaki, we’ve . . . known each other a long time. When we first met, I thought you were annoying, stupid, and naive—”

_ “Saruhiko.” _

“But,” there’s sweat on his palms and an itch in his throat, as he continues. “But, without all of that, I don’t think we’d have become . . . what we did. If you were smarter, you never would have involved yourself with me, and I . . . I would not have been okay with that, so, I guess I’m glad you stuck around. I’m glad you didn’t let me push you away.”

Saruhiko knows that this is all fake, as fake as the potted flowers scattered around the eatery, so it’s not like he’s confessing to anything here. He knows this, of course, but the words still taste raw on his tongue and he has trouble spitting them out, for some reason.

“I don’t have a ring,” he says, and his fingers uncurl to reveal the makeshift one instead. “Not a good one. But that’s because . . .”  _ Make up some story on the fly about why you don’t have my ring yet.  _ “That’s because I’ve waited too long for you and I couldn’t wait anymore, I guess.”

There’s noises in the background now, murmurs and gasps and whispers hidden behind the backs of hands. Customers have finally taken notice of them, and out of the corner of his eye Saruhiko sees an employee with a  _ manager   _ pin tacked to her chest.

Misaki’s eyes are on him, wide with . . . something. He wonders if Misaki thinks his performance is impressive enough to earn them a free meal.

“But when I do get a proper ring,” he says, and he raises his voice further, because this is only for the benefit of the crowd, specifically the manager, “it’ll be something unbreakable. It’ll be something . . .”

His hand twitches toward his scarred mark, and this may be for the benefit of the crowd but he realizes too late that it is something the crowd could never understand. “It’ll be something that no one can burn.”

Misaki makes an odd noise in his throat. “Saru—”

“I can't imagine sharing my world with anyone but you, Misaki.” He holds up the straw wrapper. “So marry me . . . or something.”

After that, silence.

Spent, Saruhiko rocks back on his heels, releasing the sigh he'd been holding. His chest feels lighter, somehow, but he can't put a finger on why and he doesn't try to. He fiddles with the straw wrapper and everyone is staring and Misaki is staring, so why hasn't Misaki done anything yet? Besides gaping at him, mouth ajar, Misaki hasn't moved an inch, nor has he spoken a word.

“Say yes!” someone shouts. It’s a young boy, seated with his family a few tables over. He’s looking at Misaki with big excited eyes. “Say yes, mister! Say yes!”

In a daze, Misaki blinks at the boy. His mouth opens and closes and opens and closes, but nothing comes out. When Saruhiko reaches over to tie on the straw wrapper ring, clicking his tongue as if he wishes to have no more part in this, Misaki watches wordlessly.

“Idiot,” mutters Saruhiko. “I did my stupid part, so do yours already so we can leave."

At that, something in Misaki's expression begins to uncloud. He looks over to their unpaid meal, the only reason for this fake proposal in the first place, and understanding blows his eyes wide.

"O-Oh! Oh yeah," he says sheepishly. "I . . . I forgot."

"How can you just  _forget_ —" Saruhiko starts, bewildered, only for Misaki to then drown him out with quite possibly the fakest voice he's ever heard.

"Y-Yes! Yes, Saruhiko! Yes, obviously yes! I will marry you!"

Saruhiko winces. "Too much," he mouths at him, "way too much—wait, what are you  _doing—"_

In a flourish of affection, Misaki leaps forward, wraps his arms around him and hugs him tight. His arms are warm around Saruhiko's waist, his smile even warmer pressed into the crook of Saruhiko's neck, and Saruhiko makes a choked, dying sound.

"Idiot," he gasps. He can't decided whether he's suffocated or breathless. "What, what are you  _doing—"_

"Oh, the crowd wasn't sold on us yet, you see," Misaki says too quickly. "I felt this would tip the scale, y'know? Really seal the deal."

Misaki's right. Judging by the volume, the majority of the restaurant is applauding them, and Saruhiko can see the manager somewhere to their right pulling out several tissues. Still, he grumbles, "Crowd looked pretty sold to me before."

"Ah well, who cares anyway. Better safe than sorry, right?" Misaki presses his next words to Saruhiko's skin, as if to hide them, and Saruhiko resists the urge to shiver at the touch. "Saruhiko, your speech was very . . . um . . ."

"Do you think it'll get us the free meal?"

Misaki laughs. "I know it will."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Can't believe I actually ended up writing this silly thing, lol. I don't normally write things like this, but it turned out to be more fun than I expected so that's good. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Oh and also, I know same-sex marriage is not yet legal in Japan but let's just say that it is in K's Japan, okay)


End file.
